


our paths may diverge

by bountifulsilences



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Suicide Attempt, this is just pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 15:49:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17769692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bountifulsilences/pseuds/bountifulsilences
Summary: His ma was an incredible woman, getting him to the position where he was able to live, and Bucky a saint for putting up with his malfunctioning body and staying, never straying too far from pathetic Steve Rogers. But the stipulation of his birth was that he was not to live in content. The longer he evaded death, the harder life would become.or the one where Steve fucks up, makes a rash decision and suddenly it gets harder to breathe.





	our paths may diverge

**Author's Note:**

> didn't I say when depressed write sad shit because its cathartic? yes I did  
> this isn't as angsty as I wanted now that I read over (and briefly edited) this but its still pretty heavy oops
> 
> please heed the warnings. this contains a lot of emotional shifts and pain etc so look after yourselves, a book isn't worth it
> 
> I think everything is tagged but if I have missed something please let me know and I'll tag it !!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this mess cause lets be real, it fucking sucks but im experimenting and idk stop hoarding writing maybe? yeah seems like a good idea

He felt numb, his blazing core frozen over into ice, all whilst emotions raged destructively as a snow storm. Everything had been planned down to the second- he knew, he counted it. Yet, things didn’t occur how he wanted them to, because in life nothing ever did. Not when he dived the Valkyrie into the ice and not when he watched the frost glaze over Bucky’s face in Wakanda.

But this disastrous mission was it. The final thread that was holding him together as he navigated from hydra base to hydra base, mission to mission, day to night: it snapped. The fine wire that had been woven with care by his mother's trembling hands, had been nurtured by her endless hours in a hospital that was intent on killing her, it fractured.

All the moments and incidents leading up to that moment relayed in his mind, rupturing the thread as though it was bone until the final collision that successfully split it. And oh, what a force it was.

From the moment the serum was inserted into his body and the vita rays cultivated muscle, his job was singular: protect the people from their avoidable deaths. Because unless there was no cure for their ailment, no way to hinder the outcome of plague annihilating light in their mind, Steve could interject. He could always do something. In this new century, he was more capable than he could have ever imagined; technology evolved whilst he lay dormant, and with-it humans.

But despite that, there was always someone who needed him, his help or his assistance. Captain America, a man who played him for years after the thaw, was necessary. Steve Rogers? Not so much. And even with the absence of the stripes and the flags and the handheld shield, he was still someone else first, and Steve second.

Natasha told him, one night when they both feigned light intoxication from drinking and drinking, “you can never be who you want to be, because it’s not enough, someone gets hurt. But you can be who they want you to be, and that’s a promise which gets you love and trust that nothing ever could.”

Mourning the loss of who he was never was a priority for him. Because it lived inside him like a parasite that ravaged the walls from within to reach the out; it ate and scrambled and tore until it got to him now. Now, where his hands shook uncontrollably and to no relief, and the room felt too big but too small.

He couldn’t do this- this life saving thing. Time and time again he proved himself unworthy, an imposter who would never be the world’s most righteous man. But now had been the most horrific of outcomes.

For blood to drain from his hands as a waterfall was nothing new, he was accustomed to it. However, to have Sam’s coat his fingers and burn them was an experience he never thought he’d ever face and did in that moment. He was responsible for the incident, and he alone was to blame for everything that went wrong.

Because of his miscalculations and his misunderstandings and his inability to follow through, Sam was at the Wakandan hospital bed, Natasha by his side, bandaged and in a medically induced coma for the next couple of days while he healed. All because he was a useless leader and he risked everyone’s life but his own.

He couldn’t do this anymore, life had gotten harder and harder, and his mind deteriorated with every struggling breath. Not everyone was made to survive the calamities enforced by existence, and he was one of them. The serum fixed everything, but his will- his need to die could not be extinguished by anything, certainly not a blue liquid that promised growth and nothing more.

“ _Good becomes great and bad becomes worse_.” Erskine had been right about that.

From the millions of thoughts which travelled through the passages of his brain, this, the most harrowing one of all boomed. When some would perish, never to be resurrected again- their sequence of life was over, this would remain, and it would never silence. Not even when his eyes hushed, blood-ridden and exhausted, craving nothing but content slumber for a few hours- more than the indistinguishable minutes they were receiving, it continued to prevail.

Coming to life, as a formation of images relaying the ugly truths which he desperately wanted to avoid, wanted to obliterate. It is said that the toughest decisions reveal the true character of a person: who they truly are. Their foundations and principles, their abilities and sincerity. He was as wretched as they got.

His red hands, leaving crimson trails of blood where they grazed the walls of his body, were a constant reminder of that. He was a tactical killer. Ruthless when it came to it. A machine with an objective. A murderer.

Saving Sam was paramount for him, that was why he kept calm on the flight back to the King’s palace to get him there safely. But now that he had, the numbness which protected him during the journey was starting to get replaced by the pain, and he could feel life entering his veins, closing in on him. Breaths shrinking in his throat, light burning his dark eyes, despair everywhere he trudged. He was feeling.

That was why he had gone back to the quinjet, after the hospital trip, ignoring Natasha’s piercing gaze and purposefully requesting that Bucky was not made aware of his arrival, he needed to get something. Retrieve an instrument from the lockers and quietly retreat to the room which graciously hosted him. It was time to get the vengeance that escaped him for decades. It was time for revenge.

His hand, shaking visibly in front of him with unjust fear, harboured a gun. A weapon that he took from the arsenal they shared with an intent to deliver justice. His heart rate laboured instantly, racing so ferociously it pounded against his ribcage, demanding the door open. Swallowing an anxious gulp, the burst of air lodged in his throat, stuck and unable to pass the trapped words begging to dispel. He couldn’t breathe.

He fucked up.

He fucked up tremendously, horrifically if he thought about it hard enough and there was no way to reverse the outcome of his insolence. His stupidity. Sam had told him, warned him of the consequences but Steve followed his gut and did what he wanted to do opposed to what had to be done. Consequently, a body lay in a hospital bed and that was on him. All on him. To think he believed that he was okay- he scoffed at himself cynically.

He was not a good man. The life he lived and the story that unravelled with each of his breaths proclaimed so. He was not worthy.

And so, he raised the gun, finally eyeing it because he had not been able to before, inexplicably scared of what it meant, what it promised. But he couldn’t do this. This, life thing that many wanted him to thank and bless and enjoy. It was never going to work out for a person who it desperately tried to murder from the moment he was born.

His ma was an incredible woman, getting him to the position where he was able to live, and Bucky a saint for putting up with his malfunctioning body and staying, never straying too far from pathetic Steve Rogers. But the stipulation of his birth was that he was not to live in content. The longer he evaded death, the harder life would become.

It was time for him to beckon his destiny. Death was an inescapable destination, and he craved it now more than ever. Needed the painful release. Staring at the gun, he quivered but nodded. Like a soldier, it was his time to lose the war. Not everyone made it out alive, and he would be one of them.

Aiming the cool weapon against his sweat consumed forehead, he released a shaky breath. Around him the world slowed, the noise of life muted and it was just him, the metal barrel and a vow. Fire the bullet, end would come soon. Curling his finger around the trigger, he closed his eyes, unable to let his demise close them for the last time, and he gulped. This was it.

“What the fuck?” a shrill voice shouted, the door behind him slamming shut and footsteps rushing close to his trembling physique. “What the fuck. What the actual fuck. Oh my god.”

He jolted, finger tightening around the release of the gun in warning. His heart rate soared. No- no- _no_ , this wasn’t supposed to happen. Why did he- no, fuck this wasn’t supposed to happen. Why didn’t anything ever happen according to plan- no.

“What the fuck are you doing with that gun, Steve? Are you out of your mind? What are you-”

Steve saw Bucky charge for the weapon that was still firmly pressed against his temple and he moved, his legs paralysed by emotions that ran rampant dissolving to something akin to jelly. Nothing would stop him, not a lost chance or lost love or a losing battle. His mind was decided. His decision had to be honoured he- he- he fucking deserved as much.

“No!” he exclaimed, moving out of reach and facing Bucky, drinking in his dishevelled and terror-struck face. “No. Don’t you- don’t even think about it Bucky. Stay back. I- I mean it.”

If instigated, if he was desperate enough, he’d shoot. Shuri could remove the memory from Bucky’s head, it wouldn’t exist there forever. But he was not playing games, the gun was not a toy. It was justice.

“Steve…” That was all he said. Voice watery and eyes starting to glisten and so, so quiet, petrified. He wasn’t supposed to sound like that ever again- Bucky wasn’t supposed to see this- _fuck_.

Steve couldn't help it, his eyes drew tears, water seeping into the sockets, but immovable from where they stood. The army waited for a command to spill, but he would never bark it. If they fell, it would purely be from disobedience. He would never invoke the breakdown he was suppressing. Not now, not ever. Someone else would.

He didn’t want this, why couldn’t things just work out for him? He couldn’t- he couldn’t breathe.

“Stevie, what are you-” his voice broke, the distress breaking his sentence, but Bucky gulped, eyes never straying from Steve or the gun. “What are you doing? I don’t. I don’t understand.”

He should answer the question, perhaps offer some consolation of some sort and generally try to spend his last few minutes alive not being an asshole. But he needed Bucky to go. Needed him gone so he himself could pass and anything that would prolong that stressed him. Bucky being here when he was so vulnerable was stressing him. Steve wanted to shoot himself.

Taking deep, thunderous breaths, Steve managed to calm himself enough to force out, “you need to go. You need to leave now, Bucky.”

And he could see the moment the fire reignited in his iris, the energy returning and anger multiply. Bucky didn’t like being told what to do, he never did when he believed he was in the right. “The hell I am!” he retorted, outraged. “I’m not stepping a foot out of this room until you put that goddamn gun away and start thinking properly.”

“Oh,” Steve said, heart ablaze instantaneously. Who the fuck did Bucky think he was? “‘Start thinking properly’? This is the clearest I’ve thought in a long time, pal. The clearest.”

The truth was he lost his mind years ago, and he never found it again. He existed but rarely lived in the new century. Everyone was hurting, everyone was secretive, and everyone was distrustful. He learnt and adapted, but he just yearned for easier times. Easier times that were lost along with his mind.

So, now, after being an awful person for the last time he was finally conscious. Knew what to do for himself and others. It was time for him to do what he should have done years ago. Fate caught up with him in the end.

“Put the gun down Steve,” Bucky said, voice hard and eyes calculating. “Put it down and let’s talk this out.”

Bucky started fidgeting with the string of beads on his arms and Steve wasn’t stupid, he knew he was calling someone, or doing something of the sort. He didn’t even try to hide it and it infuriated him to no end. He heaved as he struggled to breath, consumed with ire.

“I deserve a peaceful ending, Buck. I deserve better than for you to fucking- for you to call someone, what the fuck. Get out. Get out of this room right now or I will fucking splatter my brains on this goddamn wall and then everyone will be fucking sorry,” he roared, breathing escalated and he couldn’t think, and the breaths were getting caught and fuck, fuck, fuck why did he have to call someone? Why couldn’t Bucky mind his own business?

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t fucking _breathe_.

“No!” Bucky yelled, surging forward to grab the gun but Steve moved out of the way, frantic and less sane that he had been before Bucky came. His brain was screaming.

“I don't want to die,” cried Steve, the gun pressing harshly against his temple as his fingers and knuckles turned white. “I don't want to die but I want to fucking die, and you can’t take this away from me Bucky, get the fuck out of this room. Go!”

Quivering in conviction and utmost concern, Bucky howled, "no, not without you!" glaring vehemently at Steve, always a match. “I’m not leaving you here to die! I’m not leaving you Steve, I will never fucking leave you. Hydra couldn’t tear me away from you, and I won’t let death do what they couldn’t. I won’t.”

His face and breathing were ragged, and Steve knew he was on the brink of losing it. Last time he had checked in Bucky was in therapy and dealing with the trauma of existing as a weapon rather than a person for decades and being coerced to commit horrifying crimes against humanity. To terrorise Bucky in this state meant that there was a reserved seat for Steve in the pits of hell, but he couldn’t-

But no. He was giving Bucky an escape, he was letting him go and he was not doing anything. This wasn't on- this wasn’t on him. Fuck, why couldn’t he just die? Why did nothing come easy for him- he was doing what he had to!

“Get out of this room Bucky,” he demanded, rage consumed his voice making it unrecognizable. His eyes were hard and focused, and he couldn’t hear anything over his booming heartbeat.

“No,” he stated, brutally. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He always there, Bucky was always there. But it wasn’t _enough_ , and it never would be. His mind was set. He wanted to die.

Steve looked around, despaired and the tears- the tears which he had kept at bay fell from his weakened eyes and dived to the ground. Shrugging his shoulders, he swallowed his disgust because he was such an awful fucking human for doing this, to Bucky out of everyone, but he had to, and he nodded, teeth grinding.

“I fucking love you, Buck,” he said, his voice dripping with the pain he held inside him and as watery as the tears which would not stop falling. He couldn’t see Bucky’s face clearly. “I- I love you so much it hurts to breathe sometimes. But I can’t do this any longer and I’ve stalled for as long as I can. You were the best memory of my life, and I nee- need you to know that. Because you deserve the world and I would only destroy it. I’m so fucking sorry, and I love you more than these shitty words could describe.”

Closing his eyes, he sobbed- clear and deafening for the first time in years and decades, breaking down unrestrained for the first and last time. It was only Bucky; his reputation was in safe hands. But his life wasn’t. It hadn’t been for a long time. Inhaling sharply, ignoring the way Bucky ran to him and screamed, he pulled the trigger and-

Black.

*

*

*

Bucky caught Steve before he fell to the floor, and he kicked the gun further away from Steve’s body. Cradling his unconscious body, Bucky cried, unable to do anything else.

When he fiddled with his beads, nothing felt real anymore. Not when the possibility of Steve not making it was so high. So, he projected an emergency signal that would alert someone he needed help. In the distance, behind the window he saw two snipers, setting up for, he didn't know. All he wanted them to do was knock Steve unconscious.

And they did, because he was limp in Bucky's arm but not dead, he was alive and breathing and hurting and-

He was alive. He was alive and that was all Bucky would permit himself to think of. He was alive

But for how long? His treacherous mind asked. He didn’t know. It had been a long time and he didn’t know anything anymore. Nothing made sense.

He couldn’t save Steve from himself, that had always been the deal. But holding him tightly in his embrace, Bucky knew that he had no choice but to. He deserved to live, and he deserved to be happy. He just didn’t know how he was going to do it.

But he’d find a way, he had to believe that he would. For Steve’s sake but also his own. He couldn’t live in a world without him.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr:  bountifulsilences   
> twitter:  AwestruckBuck 
> 
> i told you this sucks but give yourself a pat on the back for making it to the end. thats an achievement


End file.
